


Dancing With A Viper

by cilceon



Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [7]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Slow Burn, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29489433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cilceon/pseuds/cilceon
Summary: “The truth always strikes a nerve with you… Look, I don’t know what it is your plan is for her, but she’s not some paintbrush you can toss aside when the bristles get too short.” Hancock shifted his weight. “I’ll be honest with you D Man.” The emphasis on ‘honest’ wasn’t lost on him. “O’Malley is dangerous. Way dangerous. Not just for my people or yours, but everyone. Word around is that he’s taken an interest in Charlie. You don’t need me to explain why that’s a bad thing.”(its another undercover story with Deacon & Wanderer... but is it the one where he finally tells her he loves her?)
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Lying Eyes and Honest Hands [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992751
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

_“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride:_

_I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this,_

_in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,_

_so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”_

  
_ \- Pablo Neruda - _

Deacon sighed to himself from his seat in the catacombs, flipping another the page in the book he was half interested in. Once again he glanced up at Desdemona.

She was ending the sixth cigarette that had been in her hand in the last hour. Not a good sign. If the heavies were the wheel, Desdemona was the axel – nobody ever paid attention to the axel. He dogeared a page in the book, setting it down in his place, standing.

Dez pinched the bridge of her nose, another bad sign. She continued looking through the stack of fraying pre-war newspapers that had reports scrawled about them, scattered around the covered well in the center of the room.

Now – he couldn't just go up to the woman and say ‘ _Hey Dez, you look like you're about to tear your hair out._ ’ Since that would get him punched in the face. Instead, he circled behind her, towards the busted-up coffee pot on a desk and began pouring himself a cup.

Desdemona ran on coffee and nicotine. There was always guaranteed to be a relatively hot source of the disgusting bean soup wherever the woman was. The smell of tobacco working as a chaser. Death, taxes, and Dez’s coffee addiction were the only things certain in the world. Well, he supposed the taxes one got penciled out with the apocalypse.

“Deacon.” She addressed without looking up from the papers. “A word.”

“Sure thing boss.” Took her long enough to say something, the cup was almost completely full – she was hesitating.

“How is our General doing?” Bad sign number three.

It was no secret in the heart of their little outfit who Wanderer was, but that information didn’t leave HQ. No one who wasn’t one of the main dozen, Wanderer included, knew she was a part of the Minutemen.

It couldn’t be helped – she interacted with all of them. But the average tourist didn’t know what the General of The Minutemen looked like. Hell, Deacon doubted that most of them knew that title belonged to a woman. Was that why she went by Charlie instead of Charlotte?

What a wonderful cover she gifted them. A lot of runs Wanderer and he had been sent on could be made to look like they were orchestrated by the Minutemen. Just the General and some lieutenant serving the people or whatnot, if synths and their folks were helped out in the prosses? All the better.

It had been nothing but a benefit to be working with the militia, Garvey was even being strict with the no bigot rule Wanderer enforced. Though, that was quite a big hill to get over.

The Castle had become a hotspot of information of Institute sightings and other fun gossip for him to pluck out then present to Desdemona with a little bow on top. Their patrols easy ways to mask agents and synths moving from safehouse to safehouse. PAM acknowledged that their success rate increased by a whole ten percent since her joining – that number was doing nothing but growing since.

But it wasn’t often in the months since Wanderer’s indoctrination into their family that Desdemona referred to her as General. Only when she was talking business with the Minutemen.

Watching the two women switch from leader and subordinate to two equals discussing the state of the Commonwealth was jarring for most of the other agents. Deacon, however, found it fascinating.

It was kin to two lionesses dancing with each other. The way Wanderer would change her posture – her tone, when she was speaking on behalf of her men versus when she was taking orders from Dez, giving a report, or offering some of her golden pre-war council.

The tango drove Carrington insane, Deacon noted. Wanderer in essence had the anatomy that the doctor envied for years. While Dez saw Carrington as almost an equal, Wanderer was able to shift to more than that with a turn of a hat.

Desdemona knew that Wanderer had more power than her. No, not more power – just a different kind. The General could move in the daylight, while she was confined to the shadows. One group could be loud, the other was forced to speak in hushed whispers. The Minutemen had The People when The Railroad didn’t. That was a potent thing, and they all knew it.

“Well, she had a bit of a cold last week but I think she’ll live.” Deacon crossed his arms, holding the coffee in one hand and leaned back against the well. Facing away from Dez to the white paint of the Railroad’s insignia that Mr. Smiley stenciled upon their arrival to the church.

“Her mental state, Deacon.” Dez reached for another cigarette, “She’s balancing quite a few things on those shoulders of hers. And now, with learning that The Institute has her boy – and that we have no way to reach them…” She flicked a lighter, igniting her cigarette, “It’s a wonder she hasn’t completely shut down.”

There was a crack, he wanted to tell her. Wanderer cracked in the tiniest hairline when she put a bullet through Kellogg’s brain. Her face was emotionless in a way that terrified him. Like he was looking at a reflection of himself. Thank god Nick was with them, Deacon wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to pull her out of that without him.

And what happened when they got to Amari… He saw everything in that tinny monitor with the doctor, she didn’t need to say anything when she woke up.

It was a rough night for Wanderer to say the least, and the days that followed? She had been more reckless than normal.

“She’s peachy Dez.” Deacon took a drink from the cup. “Unless you know something I don’t.” He winked at her, even though it couldn’t be seen behind the glasses.

“I have a report from a tourist here.” She gestured to the paper with a flick but didn’t let him read anything. “Hancock has some information for us. Possibly a job. One better done under her other occupation. I need to know she can handle it.”

“Would this be a solo op?” He looked from the wall to the coffee, he didn’t want her going on anything but milk and cookie runs without him at her side. She was to important, still to green. Wanderer didn’t see everything she needed to while on a job.

Desdemona took a drag from the cigarette. “From what I can tell, no. This would be a job led by you, she’d be a… distraction.”

Details, Deacon needed more details. “Well, if–” The door leading to the church above opened, silencing him.

Dogmeat bounded down the steps into the catacombs, Wanderer behind him. She gave them a short wave of greeting that said ‘ _hey guys don’t worry everything’s fine’_ as she turned to PAM’s room to let the assaultron know her job was done.

However, Dogmeat had other plans. He circled around the table. Sitting down next to Desdemona with an expectant look. The dog had her wrapped around his paw. She set the document down on the well and knelt down to give Dogmeat ear scratches. This gave Deacon the opportunity to scan over the paper, _thanks boy_.

He had less than seven seconds to read anything, the words he picked out were _State House Gala… sounds like trouble… General of the Minuteman invited… O’Malley’s–_

Desdemona stood back up; Deacon snapped his interest back to the coffee. James O’Malley was the textbook definition of a problem. A mobster boss and conniving asshole with a pension for anything pre-war, beautiful woman, and power. All categories Wanderer fit perfectly.

Goodneighbor knew the story of Vault 111, that she was pre-war from the few details she spilled to Piper. All the big shots there knew she was the head of The Minutemen, and more importantly – that she was friends with Hancock.

He heard the rumors about O’Malley. Well, they weren’t rumors – disgusting truths really. O’Malley was the ghoulified version of Picasso with how he treated woman. What was the quote from the painter’s ex-wife’s biography he read?

Ah yeah; ‘He submitted them to his animal sexuality, tamed them, bewitched them, ingested them, and crushed them on to his canvas. After he had spent many nights extracting their essence, once they were bled dry, he would dispose of them.’

Substitute the canvas for a drug and sex trafficking ring and you had O’Malley. Deacon didn’t like the idea of Wanderer being anywhere near that. He set the coffee down, readying himself for an argument.

“Dez, you look like your about to tear your hair out.” _Jesus, Wands lighten your touch._

Desdemona let a soft smile slip. “Wanderer. Glad your back.”

Wanderer leaned her elbows on the table across from them and grabbed Deacon’s coffee. She drank from it as Dez continued.

“Did you run into any problems.” Desdemona folded the report in half, ensuring Wanderer couldn’t read it.

The heavy shook her head as she finished the cup. “Just some gunners. Nothing Dogmeat and I couldn’t handle.” The hound trotted off towards Tinker Tom as she spoke, or more accurately to Tom’s couch. “Got the cache secured and ready for pick up.”

Desdemona held out the report to Deacon without looking from Wanderer. “Excellent. Deacon don’t you have somewhere to be?”

 _Ouch_. He took the paper from her.

Wanderer cocked her head to the side, “Going on another adventure without me?”

“Some Brotherhood recon, Wands.” He lied, “You know how it is.” Despite Desdemona’s nudge to get him to leave, he waited a moment.

“Wanderer why don’t you get some rest. There might be another job coming down the pipes for you.” Kind of Dez to let the woman sleep before tossing her back into the fire.

Wanderer nodded, setting the cup down. “I’d be glad too,” She turned to walk farther into the catacombs to the mattresses in the other room. “Stay safe, Dee.” She walked off without waiting for his response.

Deacon looked to Desdemona as she spoke, “Talk to Hancock, see what he knows about our missing synth and runner. O’Malley might have one of Drummer’s crew.”

“Understood.” Dogmeat peered his head over the couch to look at him, such an eavesdropper that mutt.

“And Deacon.” She added, “Try not to piss the mayor off this time.”

It was about a twenty-minute walk from the Old North Church to Goodneighbor. Deacon spent that time reading the report and not getting his head blown off by a drug filled raider.

In actuality it was more of a letter than a report, Hancock’s words written through it.

_Though you folks would be interested in knowing about the State House Gala I’m throwing next week. If that ass of yours hasn’t found out already._

Deacon assumed he was the ass in question.

… _Sounds like trouble to me. Our very own General of the Minuteman is invited of course, the star of the party. Not sure her invitation reached her by means of her calvary so I’m sending it this way too. More importantly. O’Malley’s fuckers might have one yours and a synth if the rumors are true. He won’t pass up an opportunity to get his slimy ass hands on our girl, that gives you a chance to get close to him, if ya take it. She can bring a plus one, doubt her soldier boy is interested._

The soldier boy was Preston, that was a given. Hancock himself was far too smart for his own good. If he stopped taking his chems for five minutes, Deacon might actually respect the man.

He walked into the Old State House, the site of a soon to be party apparently, nodding at one of the neighborhood watch boys as he shut the door.

“You got business with the mayor?” The ghoul asked.

“You could say that.” Deacon looked the man up and down; he was one of theirs. “If you don’t mind me asking, do you have a Geiger counter?”

Hancock’s voice could be heard from upstairs, but Deacon couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“Mines in the shop.” The man in front of him tilted his hat back, making his face fully visible. “Was wondering if one of you was going to show up. Matchstick.” He held his hand out to Deacon.

He took it in turn, introducing himself, “Mercutio.”

“I sent that letter out this morning,” Matchstick explained, “Wasn’t sure it’d get delivered with how fidgety the runner was.”

“Most of them are jittery like that, builds character. Is the mayor in?”

Matchstick was the one of their main contacts in Goodneighbor. Deacon’s eyes on Hancock and on The Memory Den when he himself wasn’t there. A good asset that one.

He nodded with a gesture to the floors above, “He’s been expecting one of you, he’s in his office with Fahrenheit.”

“Perfect.” With that, Deacon made his way up the stairs.

“Thinking the Super Mutants are getting a little too friendly. Maybe we should 'round up some crew and thin them out?” His voice was muffled as Deacon drew closer.

Fahrenheit responded, “Too aggressive. They will have a home ground advantage, plus our fighters are disorganized. When they aren't defending their homes, discipline and morale plummet.” He imagined Fahrenheit would be what Hancock was if he never picked up jet.

“So what? We just turtle up? That's not my style.” Hancock countered.

“The only thing that's ‘not your style’ is losing, Hancock. Trust me. We keep the game defensive. A simple castle strategy will draw the mutants to us.”

“And we can knock them off slowly… I like it…” Deacon reached the room, Hancock trailed off at the sight of him.

Deacon had no hat on and was wearing just a winter jacket over his t-shirt, ballistic weave-lined of course. He wasn’t hiding from Hancock.

“Ah… Fahrenheit, why don’t you watch the door.” He sat up casually from his spot on his couch, picking up a tin of mentats from the coffee table.

Fahrenheit stood with a nod, looking Deacon in the glasses sternly before closing the door and presumably standing on the other side of it without a word.

“Take a seat, brother.” Hancock waved to the place his second abandoned, mentats rattling in his hand with the movement.

He leaned back in the couch, leg over his knee, arms folded over his chest. “Heard your throwing quite the party.” Deacon spoke mater of factly.

Hancock chuckled as he popped a handful of the tablets into his mouth, “Yeah, it’s been a few years since we had one of ‘em.” eHe

He snapped the lid of the tin closed and tossed it on the table between them. “Though Char would enjoy it. How’s she doing anyways? Haven’t seen my favorite popsicle in about a month now.”

Deacon stopped from clenching his jaw. “She’s peachy.”

“Mhm. Unlike you, I don’t enjoy using Charlie, but I need O’Malley out of the picture and she’s the best way to do that–”

“Wouldn’t say ‘using’ more like renting, or hm maybe a time share.” _What was this junky implying?_

“You Railroad types are all the same. Wringing some doe eyed sucker for all their worth and leaving them high and dry.” Hancock leaned back now, resting the back of his head on the couch. “Char’s a good woman, I hate to think about her getting that same treatment from you lot.”

“Hancock,” Deacon kept his voice light, regardless to the fact he wanted to strangle him. “This isn’t the best way to go about asking a favor.”

“The truth always strikes a nerve with you… Look, I don’t know what it is your plan is for her, but she’s not some paintbrush you can toss aside when the bristles get too short.” Hancock shifted his weight. “I’ll be _honest_ with you D Man.” The emphasis on ‘honest’ wasn’t lost on him. “O’Malley is dangerous. Way dangerous. Not just for my people or yours, but everyone. Word around is that he’s taken an interest in Charlie. You don’t need me to explain why that’s a bad thing.”

“You want her to get close to him and what? Murder the bastard? She’s not a black widow.” He adjusted the forming tension out of his shoulders.

“Give me some credit.” Now he sat up fully, elbows resting on his knees. “I got people on the inside of his little gang to off him. The problem is it’s not enough people to overpower his men. That’s why I need her to get him alone in his warehouse here in town, my boy’s will take it from there.”

“Why would The Railroad help you with that?” Deacon wasn’t about to throw Wanderer out into some unnecessary trouble.

She wasn’t a paintbrush, or the canvas or the paint. No, she was the person holding the brush itself. He was just some asshole calling out suggestions from behind her as she painted a beautiful, intricate picture.

“My boys say they got a girl of yours being held and a synth too. If Charlie gets in there then she can get them out. We don’t take kindly to the trade of people in my town.” Hancock’s hand tightened into a fist. “I need to set an example of the fucker ‘n you get your people back in the process. It’s a win win.”

“We don’t move on rumors Hancock.” _God,_ he felt like Desdemona.

“You wouldn’t say that if Charlie was in that kid’s place.”

The wanting to strangle Hancock feeling was back. “I’ll talk to my people and see what I can do.”

“Make sure she gets a say in this, find her a nice pretty dress while you’re at it. I’ll foot the bill.”


	2. Chapter 2

_“The moon is a loyal companion.  
It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human.  
Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.”  
\- Tahereh Mafi -_

Desdemona crossed her arms, mirroring Deacon. “And what do you say in response?”

“That’d we’d have a family meeting and get back to him in three to five business days.” He was leaning on the desk in PAM’s room. Carrington sitting in the office chair to his left, Dez herself was resting against the wall to his right. Somehow, Dogmeat had managed to weasel his way into the room as well – sleeping up the steps in front of the lockers.

PAM was in her equivalence of sleep mode in the corner, as she often was when he was in the room. Deacon was starting to think she was avoiding him.

Carrington scoffed, “Can’t you take this serious.”

“Carrington. Enough.” Desdemona huffed, “We have the opportunity to save a synth we thought was lost _and_ one of our own. We won’t waste this.”

“Think practically, the risk of losing one of our top agents is far too high. It is one synth and the runner knew the risks. O’Malley is not a Railroad problem.”

“This isn’t the first time he’s gotten a package,” Dez had her need-I-remind-you tone in full force. “I don’t think this will be the last.”

“O’Malley has gotten in the way of our mission before yes, but do you think Wanderer has the skills to play him into some trap we have no say in?” Carrington shifted in his seat before adding, “Why not send another agent in her place?”

“It has to be Wanderer. She’s the one invited to the party and they know her.” Desdemona sighed. “Often, we have no say in the cards we are delt, Wanderer has the face and presence we kneed in this.”

Carrington scoffed again, “It’s dangerous to have someone so involved in the Minutemen so tightly woven into our ranks.”

“We are not dropping Wanderer, Carrington. Don’t suggest it.” Her jaw tightened slightly. “She’s been nothing but an asset to us.”

“Oh, for now.” Carrington threw a hand into the air, “I am not claiming we haven’t hit a run of luck with her, but she will slip eventually. What happens if she is recognized while on a job?”

“It’s a risk we will continue talking.”

Deacon watched Dogmeat peek open an eye open from across the room, looking to him. _You’re going to let them talk about her like that?_

“So, about this party,” Deacon interjected into the conversation, “Wand’s would just be arm candy for Hancock then switch to O’Malley. At the end of the night, she’d leave with him and her dutiful security–” he gestured to himself, “would follow.”

Desdemona turned her attention to him. “And while she’s doing Hancock’s favor, you’d get our people back.”

“And what makes you think you’d get them out?” Carrington eyed him.

“I know the layout if the warehouse that he’s turned into a mansion.” It was a half lie, the warehouses around Goodneighbor all had a similar blueprint and he have found himself in enough of them. “I’ll be in and out before any of them know what’s happening.”

Desdemona pursed her lips in thought, “How do you plan on getting Wanderer out of this?”

“A claim to some Minutemen business needing to be handled.” Deacon shrugged. “I’ll try my best to be convincing.”

“This mobster is dangerous.” Carrington cut in, “I simple do not see the reward out-waying the risks.”

Deacon looked to Dogmeat again, hitching his head to the side towards the door. It wasn’t a noticeable motion for the other two to pick up on, but the dog understood and rose with a stretch then headed out the archway of the room. He was inclined to think the mutt was smarter than the doctor.

“The reward is saving a synth, Carrington.” Desdemona staired him down, “Wanderer and Deacon are our two best agents, they can handle this.”

“Them being our best is precisely why they should not be running this.” Carrington was starting to grow more animated – bad sign.

“Aw, you think we’re the best? Oh, doctor you’re making me blush.”

He looked like he wanted to beat Deacon senseless. “Regrettably.”

“Both of you stop.” Desdemona pinched the bridge of her nose. “When Wanderer wakes up, discuss this with her, Deacon. If she gives this a green light than so do I.”

A low _boof_ came from the main section of the crypt, _perfect timing Dogmeat_. He trotted through into the room, returning to his earlier sleeping spot, settling down with a puff.

Wanderer imitated the sound of knocking and tapped on the stone of the archway, sticking her head into the room. “You asked me to come talk to you after my cat nap, is now a good time?” She addressed Desdemona; Deacon’s posture immediately softened.

“Oh, this is the perfect time.” Carrington tossed his hands up once more as he stood, “Why am I even here?” He didn’t wait for an answer before stalking out of the room.

Desdemona looked to her apologetically, “Deacon will fill you in.” She set a hand on Wanderers shoulder as she followed Carrington out.

Wanderer looked to Deacon, an eyebrow raised, “Oh? Well, I hope it’s something fun.”

Deacon smiled at her sheepishly. “That depends, how do you feel about parties?”

“Depends on the kinda party.” She took Dez’s place at the wall, leaning more causally. Her eyes were bright. Alert. They way they always were right when she woke up – or if she had been crying. The green woven through the hazel gleaming despite the dead earth around them.

“A dashing soirée with champagne and jiggly fruit cakes. Only the finest members of the aristocracy will be in attendance.” His hand moved to the lip of the desk, idly feeling the catch in the wood there.

Wanderer raised an eyebrow before dropping it along with her shoulders. “Is this about John’s beatnik?”

His hand stopped for a fraction of a second before continuing. Deacon knew she called Hancock by his first name but it still caught him off guard to hear the name when he wasn’t ready. Always felt like he was being dunked into the river in winter… _John._

“The very same.”

She rolled her eyes, sighing exasperatedly. “I told Preston I didn’t want to go, so there’s no need to worry about me not being free for a run.”

Deacon tried to make the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong. Try again.”

Now she squinted with a tilt of her head, sleep fully leaving her as she connected the dots he threw out. “Why… do I need to go?”

-

Charlie had made a habit of not looking at her refection anymore. The woman who would stare back at her had become less recognizable each day. Tonight, was different though.

She had been staring into a – relatively clean – floor length mirror in one of the State House’s ‘guest’ rooms for a good half hour now. The dress that had been folded on the bed when she arrived fit her perfectly, or it would if she could reach the last of the tiny buttons that traced up her spine to the base of her shoulder blades where it then parted down her shoulders. Its satin was Minutemen blue. Seemingly untouched by the war. How John got something like this was a mystery to her. She made a mental note to thank him later.

She looked so different, her skin was tanner, arms more defined with muscle. Grey hairs would outnumber the black at this rate… The stark contrast between bullet hole scars and the evening gown made her want to laugh. Charlie wasn’t a housewife going to a banquet to support her husband anymore. She’d probably killed more people than Nathan ever did.

Charlie titled her head to the side, earrings heavy with the moment. She touched one of them gently. It had been a long time since she had worn diamonds, she wasn’t ever expecting to ever again. The periwinkle of them complimented the dress nicely, regardless of her hair already getting caught in them.

She wanted to leave it down as if could offered some protection from wandering eyes but if it were up – pins could be hidden in it. A lifesaver if she ran into any door that was locked. Did she remember how to pin up curls?

Tentatively, Charlie reached for the bobby pins in the dish in front of her. She was just finishing with the last lock of her hair when a soft knocking came from the door.

“Come in.”

“Why don’t you look like the bell of the ball.” Deacon popped his head into the room before entering. If it weren’t for the glasses, she wouldn’t recognize him. He was in a black suit, the undershirt the same shade of blue as her dress. A Minutemen pin was attacked to the lapel of his coat. She got the inkling he snagged it from Preston.

“Oh, Deacon, great timing!” She spun so her back was exposed to him. “Can you be a doll and button this up for me?”

“Sure thing boss.” She returned her attention to her hair as he moved behind her. With the heels she had on, Charlie was almost the same height as him.

Deacon’s hands ghosted over the bare skin of middle of her shoulder blades as he began fastening the small buttons.

“Isn’t this dress gorgeous?” She asked to his reflection, “I can’t believe John was able to get his hands on it.”

He set his hands on her shoulders gently and moved his head to the side of her own. “It would look better on me but only by a hair.” There was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So, you like it?”

“I love it.” She smiled in turn, “I haven’t worn anything this pretty in a long time.”

Deacon took a step back, making a show of looking her over like she was a painting, “Hm…mhm mhm… its missing something.”

She turned to face him, skirt twirling with the motion before she set a hand on her thigh. “Don’t worry, I have Deliverer right here.” Charlie patted the fabric, illuding to the placement of her gun.

He made a tsking sound in response, “A statement piece.” Deacon put his hand in the pocket of his coat.

“Yes, the gun in the suspiciously strong garter belt Tom threw at me before we left HQ technically counts as a statement piece but I –”

“A necklace.” He said simply, then made a spinning motion with his finger.

Charlie took the cue and turned back towards the mirror, once again looking at him through the reflection with a slight frown that left when she saw what was hanging from his hand. “Dee, where’d you find somethin’ like that?”

“I have my ways,” He moved the necklace in front of her and clasped it. The motion was slow, like he was putting great care into it. The side of his hands resting gently against the nape of her neck. The warmth of him seeping into her like the sun.

She brought her hand to the pendent now resting in the center of her collar bones. It was a silver, four-pointed star and in the center a light blue, almost grey crystal. “Oh, Deacon it’s…” _the color of your eyes,_ “It’s so beautiful.”

He sat on the bed with a plop, looking up at her in the mirror “I’ll send your compliments to the chef.”

She kept her eyes on the necklace, “I hope I don’t have to give it back.” It was said more to herself than to her companion.

“Think of it as a late– or early, birthday present.” He smiled, head tilting to the side like a puppy.

“Thank you, Deacon.” Charlie’s hand left the metal and she started to put what make up she had gathered on, starting with her eyes. “Do you really think I’m going to be able woo this guy?”

“Absolutely, Wands.” He set his elbows on his knees, seemingly fascinated with the start of her makeover. “Every person in that room isn’t going to be able to take their grubby little eyes off of you. You just gotta be yourself and you’ll have O’Malley eating out of your hand.”

“What can you tell me about him?” She shifted her tone slightly, like she was drawing information from a defense from her law days. It was a habit she was still trying to break. Deacon never seemed offended by it though. She had asked him this question several times in the last week, he obliged each time.

“He’s a sleezy asshole. Can’t handle his liquor, almost as annoying as Hancock, and has a taste for obscure music no one’s heard of.”

She rolled her eyes as she finished the eyeliner on one lid and moved to the other. “Deacon, John’s harmless.”

If she blinked, she would’ve missed the movement of his hand tensing. _What in that sentence upset him?_

“The first time you met him he stabbed a guy.”

Charlie set the pencil down, looking at his reflection. “And how do you know about that?”

Deacon made his oh-shit-I-got-caught face that he reserved just for her. “Dogmeat told me?” He shrugged; hands raised.He shrugged

“As much as I want to know, I feel like the answer would upset me.” She moved to eyeshadow; dark gray that would fade to blue.

“Ah, it’s like that with most of the things I say isn’t it?” His hands returned to their earlier place. “Just be careful around him, alright?”

 _John or O’Malley?_ “I won’t get into any trouble I can’t get out of Dee. You know that.”

He looked at her softly, “Of course I do. That never stops you from getting in trouble in the first place though.” Deacon continued with explaining the mission and all its steps for the umpteenth time. Stopping only when another knock came from the door, this one tried to sound like a pattern but it failed miserably.

Unlike Deacon, Hancock didn’t wait for an answer before strolling into the room. “Ah shit, look at you.” He leaned against the door frame, “Gonna make it real hard to get ‘distracted’ from you tonight.”

She turned to the ghoul with a smile, more playful than the once she gave to Deacon a minute prior. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Hancock put a hand over his frock, “You wound me, sister.” He paid Deacon no mind as he continued. “You ready to go Char? Or we could just stay up here…”

Now Deacon stood. Moving in front of Charlie casually, hands in his pockets. “Wouldn’t that defeat the whole purpose of tonight?”

“You ain’t ever had fun before have you, D man?” Hancock jabbed.

Charlie put a hand on Deacon’s shoulder before he could respond. She felt a previously unknown tension of his shoulder melt away under her touch. “Harmless.” She muttered to him before turning her attention to the other man. “Magnolia’s gonna be singing tonight right? I love her voice.” Now she walked past Deacon to Hancock, lacing her arm with his and heading down the spiral stairs to the ball room. Deacon dutifully following behind.

“Course. Only the best for the General.” He gave her a nudge with his elbow as they walked.

She let out an air of a laugh, “Oh, really? I’ll have to remember that.”

This earned a rough chuckle from him, one that could only be described as Hancock. They reached the double doors leading to the hall, where he nodded at Ham who kept up his mantle of bouncer and opened one of the doors, letting the sounds of the party reach them, glasses clanking, voices laughing. A ghoul on stage was playing a fiddle and another was sitting next to them with a drum.

As they entered the hall people cheered in greeting to the mayor. Some raised glasses. Others patted him on the shoulder as they passed. Several men tilted their hats to her.

This wasn’t a fancy upper-class banquet, more of a festival. Tables and chairs lined the walls, the center of the room left open for dancing. It looked like a mix of a Scottish cèilidh and a square-dancing barn. The warm light of the chandelier in the center of the room illuminating the smiles of the mostly ghoul filled hall. Everyone seemed to be in their fanciest clothing. Charlie caught the eye of Daisy who was leaning against the wall next to a large dinner table. The woman was in a bright yellow dress, adorned with the flower of her namesake.

She moved to rearrange one of the hub flower bouquet that dressed the table after someone nocked it out of place, shaking her head before turning back to the dancing patrons with a soft smile, like she was remembering something long forgotten.

“To think I ever doubted you.” Hancock mused as he led them to one of the tables. The seating was all on an equal level, if it weren’t for the coat – no one would notice he was the most important person in the room.

“Oh yeah? What kind of doubts?” As they reached the table, Deacon went ahead and pulled out a chair for her, which she took with a nod of thanks. He then went to the wall closest to them, where Fahrenheit was already standing. From his place, he’d be able to see everything behind her that she couldn’t. It relaxed her somewhat.

“You kiddin' me?” Hancock took the seat next to her, “You looked like you'd just fallen out of the Vault the day I first saw ya’. I thought I'd see you pickin' your teeth out of the gutter by sunup.” He settled himself in the seat, “It's just real rare these days, find someone who's not just willing to take things the way they're handed to them. Too many good folks not willing to get their hands dirty and too many assholes taking advantage of it.”

“Here’s your usual Mr. Hancock sir.” A ghoul she didn’t recognize set a drink in front of him.

“Ah Jimmy, I’ve told ya’ you can drop the Mr.” He took the drink greedily. “Charlie, this is Jimmy Matchstick Sorrentino. He’s one of the best damn cooks I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jimmy bowed slightly. “Is there something I can get for you ma’am?”

“Matchstick?”

“Used to have the reddest hair you’d ever see miss.” He smiled.

“Ah, I see.” Charlie thought for a moment, “You wouldn’t know how to make an amaretto sour, would you? Or something close to it?” She crossed one leg over the other, bare skin visible to anyone who cared to look. O’Malley included – hopefully.

“I can certainly try to make something adjacent ma’am.” Jimmy nodded with a smile and took his leave.

“He seems nice.” Charlie set her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers under her chin.

Hancock nodded as he downed half of his drink. “Real good kid. He was one of those fancy chiefs pre-war.”

The two carried on with light conversation, stopping only when Jimmy came back with her drink before excusing himself again. She’d glance to Deacon once in a while, but with the glasses she couldn’t tell if he returned the stare. It looked like Fahrenheit and himself were having their own discussion, though their arms stayed folded and heads forward.

“So why him?” Hancock asked, changing their previous conversation topic.

Charlie took a drink from her glass, “Whatcha mean?”

He squinted at her, drinking from his own cup, the black of his eyes shimmering with mischief. “Tall, pale, and glasses over there.” He hitched his head towards Deacon. “He’s always with you. Outa everyone ya’ could have tagging along.” He began counting on his fingers, rings just slightly too big shifting on them, “Little Miss Reporter, Nicky, your butler, hell even MacCready… Me.” Hancock stopped on his pinky before moving back to his glass, “I just don’t get it, Char. Ya’ could have anyone in the ‘wealth but you go with him.”

She took another drink, trying to buy herself time. Their silence was always natural, and it never held an expectation, she wanted to say. She wanted to say that Deacon’s smile felt like waking up at five in the morning on a summer camping trip back before the war, when she would creep out of her tent and sit outside in the gentle morning light, her bare feet in the dew-covered grass, a cool breeze sending a shiver deep down into her soul.

She wanted to explain to John that Deacon’s voice was like a gentle crash of water against shore, akin to birds chirping and leaves tumbling in lethargic wind. That there were sunbeams in his eyes that she had only gotten glimpses of, the warmth of which would heat up her arms as she laid in the grass. There was salt water in his laugh, cleansing and sparkling and singing. Watching her dearest friend was like watching the earth awaken, early in the morning when the horizon was foggy and air still creeping to life. Charlie always said that she wasn't a morning person. She used to sleep in and grumble at the alarm clock and not smile until a gallon of coffee had been consumed. Deacon reminded her that the sunrise was beautiful, no matter who was awake to notice it. He was one of the only things that made her feel warm.

Charlie set the glass back down on the table with a soft clatter. “He’s funny.” She said simply.

Hancock rolled his eyes and open his mouth to quip some response, but someone came to their table, stopping him. “Ready for your speech Hancock.”

He stood, clasping his hand over the man’s shoulder. “Thanks, my good man.” Hancock downed the rest of his drink before addressing her, “Make sure you clap real loud for me.” He winked then turned to walk to the stage, Fahrenheit pushing off the wall to follow him leaving Deacon alone. She pushed away the disappointment of him not taking Hancock’s seat – any opportunity to get O’Malley to see her alone.

Charlie swirled in her seat towards the stage, legs still folded elegantly. Her eyes scanned the room as Hancock warmed the crowed up to him. Deacon said O’Malley would most likely be in a faded purple suit with a pocket square embroidered with an O. Tacky, but helpful.

It wasn’t hard to find the ghoul in question. James O’Malley was at a table across the hall from hers. Deacon had no doubt already found him. She picked up her glass and drank the rest of it, clanking ice as with then movement. Charlie squinted at the pieces, they most likely were just icicles chipped off from the awnings and ledges of the town outside.

She looked over to O’Malley as Hancock spoke, hoping he’d feel her eyes on him. It took less than a minute before he noticed. Charlie held his gaze for a beat before looking away with a forced bashfulness, tucking a curl behind her ear with a shy grin. She could feel him still looking at her – it made her skin crawl.

“Now folks,” Hancock continued, her attention now being given to him, “Ya’ all know to be born free is to be born in debt. But what is to live in freedom without fightin’ oppression? I’ve met many people in my years as your mayor, who’ve assumed and dread some form of insurrection from an unknown entity. I don’t see a single reason in keeping this from ya’ general discussion.”

Charlie tilted her head to the side, listening. Hancock was ripping his speech straight form Orson Wells…

“There may be those within our outcast people,” He gestured to the room, rings glinting in the light. “Who think I got too much. But surely, my right to havin’ more than enough is cancelled. See, I should be put down if I don’t use that more to help those who have less. I owe the very things I make to the people I make it from. Back in the day-” Several ghouls laughed as if the very phrase was a joke, “This might’ve been called radicalism, but it comes automatically to most of us in the business. It being generally agreed that any public man owes his position to the public. A wonderful benchmark the Minutemen are strivin’ for.” That earned a cheer from the crowd.

Hancock gestured for Charlie to stand, a ring of alarm shooting through her. This wasn’t a part of the plan.

Regardless of her trepidation she stood with one smooth motion, voice clear. An air of calm setting in her at the remembrance that Deacon was behind her. “We must, each day, earn what we own. A healthy man owes to the sick all that he can do for them. An educated man owes to the ignorant the same. A free man owes to those that are not – what else but freedom? And what is to be done is more, much more, than good works… Do you remember Christmas baskets? Or bonuses or work tips? Sugar cakes and circuses…If we can’t die on behalf of progress, we can live for it.” Thank god she used to be a lawyer or else she’d be shaking with nerves. Charlie looked around the room as she spoke. Meeting the eyes of each person she could. “Progress, Americans used take to mean, was a fuller realization of a dream… The measure of progress, as we understood it, is the measure of equality enjoyed by all people. The way I looked at it, we’re lucky. We’re lucky to be breathing, my friends. We’re lucky we can try again.”

The room nodded their heads in cautious agreement, some whistled and cheered as applause slowly erupted. She bowed, returning to her seat as Hancock retook the attention.

“The General is right; our sorry asses are lucky to be alive. But only if our lives make life itself worth dying for. We gotta be worthy of our luck or we’re damned. Our lives were spared and our ancestors’ lives too. But this is merely the smallest of accidents. Unless we put the gift of life to the hard employment of justice. If we waste that gift, we won’t have anywhere to hide from the indignation of history.  
I want to say this folks; what happened with Dimond City must not be repeated. I stand up here in the name of who, in this radiated land of ours, got no voice of their own. Maybe there’ll be men who can’t be weaned away from the loathing–”

“But we should deny such men responsibility in public affairs?” O’Malley hollered from his seat.

The shadow of a scowl on Hancock’s face left as soon as it apeared. “Exactly as we deny responsibility to the victims of the Institute. Those fallen to raiders and Gunners, mutants and our lost feral brothers. But every man has the right to his own opinion like pre-war folks boasted. Ya’ must understand, hate is not an opinion, it’s a phobia. It isn’t a viewpoint, it’s a disease. In a people’s world, the incurable bigot has no rights. If there’s a big race question - ghoul or synth - there’s a big answer to it. And a big answer is simple, like the word _no_. Improving our world calls for the doin’ of great deeds, which means the dreamin’ of great dreams.

Giving the world back to its inhabitants is too big a job for the merely practical. No one of us will live to see a blameless peace, we won’t see things be like what they used to. We strive ‘n die for what will be here when we’re gone. To the generations that come after us: the fight is worth it.”

Hancock clasped his hands in front of himself, “Now I’ve done enough rambling. Everyone, enjoy yourselves.” He gestured to the room once more as they applauded and cheered for his speech. Charlie noted there were a few people scattered around the hall who were obviously only clapping to save face.

As Hancock left the stage, Magnolia took his place. He made his way back to Charlie at the table. People stopped him as he went, engaging in short conversations as he went. She decided to fettle with one of her earrings as she waited, distracting herself from looking behind her towards Deacon.

When he finally made his way back to her, Hancock sat down with a huff. Jimmy came back to the table with more drinks for the two of them. “Beautiful words, sir.” Leaving as soon as he set the glass down, hurrying off to another table calling form him.

She looked back to O’Malley momentarily before turning her attention to the mayor. “You could have told me I was a guest speaker.” Charlie glared, drinking from the crystal.

He shrugged, “Eh, you’re good with improv. I figured you’d do fine.”

“You’re impossible.”

The first of many people came to their table. Magnolia’s voice coming and going. Most of them were either groveling for a favor from Hancock or trying to get close to the Minutemen to get power for themselves. Charlie made halfhearted requests for them to write letters to the Castle or to go there themselves. It was a good thing Preston wasn’t in the room. The poor man probably would’ve passed out with all the attention.

Nearly an hour had passed before the next part of the plan started to play out.

Darla, Skinny Malone’s old girlfriend, swayed towards their table. How she made it all the way there from Dimond City without her father finding out, Charlie didn’t know. All that really mattered was that she was currently fancying Hancock. Though, if it wasn’t her, another woman would’ve eventually come to flirt with him.

“Johnny!” Darla took the seat on the other side of Hancock, forcing him to shift so that his back was almost completely to Charlie. It seemed Darla was smarter than she gave her credit before.

It was now Magnolia’s turn to play. Her voice ringing through the hall of increasingly drunk partygoers. “Alright everybody…were going to shift to something a little slower, so if you got somebody special, make sure you hold them real close.”

Charlie kept her eyes on the long-emptied glass in her hand – more accurately on the ring on her index finger. She wanted to look back at her companion but thought better of it. She wasn’t supposed to acknowledge him at all, but as the night continued it was growing more difficult.

“James O’Malley, miss.” Charlie lifted her eyes from her wedding band to the ghoul outreaching his hand to her. “Couldn’t help but notice your date seems a little preoccupied.”

She smiled up at him, taking his hand and standing. “Charlotte Hale, Commonwealth Minutemen.”

Hancock spared her a glance before addressing O’Malley. “Now don’t get too chummy with the General, O’Malley.”

She answered for him, “I could say the same to the two of you, John.”

Darla said something with a pout, drawing Hancock’s attention to her. Honestly, he had the easiest roll of the night.

“I hope you’re asking me to dance.” She looked to the floor, selling the lie.

“If you’ll have me.” O’Malley didn’t wait for her answer before pulling her to the center of the room, farther from Deacon than she’d like to be.

Charlie set a hand on his shoulder as his went to her waist, palm resting on her hip roughly as Magnolia sang. She had to stop herself from stiffening as he incased her other hand within his own, an unease setting in her at this man touching her ring.

O’Malley was cold, the kindness in the movement obviously a façade he’d ‘perfected’. Every part of her was screaming to run, to get as far from this man as she possibly could. The couples around them seemed to have the same impression, leaving a radius of open space between themselves and the pair. Like he was a snake and they were all mice – she was the only mouse he was going after.

“What a beautiful necklace you have there.” He mused.

She pushed down the urge to hide the pendant from him. “Thank you. It was a gift from someone very dear to me.”

“I have heard quite a lot about you, Miss Hale.” He leaned in, unwelcomed goosebumps raising on her skin.

“Why you have me at a disadvantage then, sir.” She looked at him sweetly as he spun her with more speed than was necessary, completely out of time to the music.

He returned the grin, full of teeth like a wolf finding a promising kill. “I was a businessman in the good old days, to put it simply. Quite an extraordinary thing, that you got to skip all the troubling bits to get here.”

 _Ah, he’s keeping the conversation off him_. “I was very lucky myself; I suppose. I missed all the heartache.” She hated the words that were coming out of her. How was it so easy for Deacon to lie all the time?

“That you did.” O’Malley shifted her again, her skirt swaying with the movement. It was blatantly obvious that he was trying to see as much of her legs as he could. Charlie’s hand on his shoulder twitched, wanting to slap him. “You even get to keep the smooth skin. If I may say, you look straight out of a catalogue.”

She didn’t like the implication of that, “Well that depends on the catalogue, doesn’t it, Mr. O’Malley?” The smile stayed on her face, she willed it to not look as forced as it felt.

His grin widened with the false pretense of snaring her into some trap. The blackness encapsulating his eyes making the expression almost sinister. “I would hope you know the one in which I’m implying.” O’Malley spun her again, saying the words with a course whisper in her ear.

The desire to backhand him grew stronger. She was thankful that her gun was so high up on her thigh, else the whole of party would be able to see it. Not that every person in the hall didn’t have some type of concealed weapon on them. But still – she wasn’t used to so much of her body being visible at any one time.

Over O’Malley’s shoulder she had a clear shot of her friend leaning against the wall, watching them intently. Deacon’s body language gave nothing away, per usual. Could he tell how uncomfortable she was?

This had to be enough time for Hancock to slip way, leaving her alone. Charlie sighed dramatically, leaning into O’Malley. “I’m tired of dancing Mr. O’Malley.”

The look on his face widened, almost like the Cheshire cat, “You can call me James, miss.” His hand traced her frame, landing so far down her back that he’d get kicked out by the surrounding patrons would this be like the ‘good old days’. Charlie’s eyes automatically snaped to where Deacon was standing. She could swear his jaw tensed as she tore her eyes from him. Desdemona owned her a bottle of whiskey for this.

With a long-ago practiced motion, she took her hand from O’Malley’s shoulder and danced it down to his chest, tracing the collar of his jacket, stopping in line with his handkerchief. He looked down at her fingers as she moved, watching the movement intently. She got closer to him, lips almost brushing against the ragged skin of his cheek as she crooned into his, ear “I’m tired of dancing, James.”

His body shivered with her whisper, a low growl finding its way out of him. Nice to know she still had some of her old-world charm, though this wasn’t the particular person she’d like to use it on.

“I’d adore it if we could conversating in a more private setting,” O’Malley’s tone lowed, hiding his words from anyone around him. “I think that my people and your people could do a lot of good together.”

The Minutemen and O’Malley’s thugs had very different opinions on the word ‘good’ so it seemed. “The Minutemen are always looking for smart,” She kept from grimacing as she looked from his mouth back to his blackened eyes, “And powerful allies.”

O’Malley plucked her from the crowd as Magnolia ended one song and started another. Instead of yanking her to the table he was previously seated at with his entourage, like Charlie had thought he would, O’Malley dragged her towards the old fire escape door. Which was the plan – she just wasn’t expecting it to be so soon. O’Malley really had no tact. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his people stand from the table and follow them, practically shoving poor Jimmy to the ground as they did so. 


	3. Chapter 3

_"...Then took the other, as just as fair,_   
_And having perhaps the better claim,_   
_Because it was grassy and wanted wear;_   
_Though as for that the passing there_   
_Had worn them really about the same..."_

_\- Robert Frost -_

O’Malley mustered the door open, sending the rush of the cold around them into her bare skin.

Walking down a hardly lit street in the middle of the night with a man one had first spoken to roughly thirty minutes prior, while a gang of five large men flowed behind – was another thing Charlie could tick off on her ‘ _what would my mother say about this’_ card. Three more and she could win a free doughnut at the local Slocum Joe’s.

“Sorry to shake that security from you, miss.” The mobster held the crock of his elbow out to her expectantly. Charlie obliged and slid her arm around his, trapping herself.

“Don’t you worry about him, he’s not the brightest crayon in the box,” She let out a shiver with the contact, “I’ve never really been one for the cold.”

He pulled her closer, “Then allow me the privilege of keeping you warm, my dear.” If she didn’t know he was a sex trafficker, Charlie might think this man charming. Instead, she wanted to break every joint in his body.

“I think I would like that very much James.” She lied. “I can’t quite put my finger on it but I feel so safe with you.”

The early smile of a predator returned to his face, “It’s my most ardent wish to have it be so.” Charlie hated how he spoke, like he was a Jane Austen character. She loathed how cold he felt and the rasp of his voice. Hated how it held no charm like Hancock’s, no sweetness like Kent’s, or the reassurance of Daisy’s. O’Malley was rough, his words felt like poison – movements stiff with the undertone of an unknown ill intention.

Most importantly, she hated how she was affectively cut off from Deacon. From this point until the synth and runner were free – and this bastard had a bullet in him, she was on her own.

They reached his warehouse turned mansion, the guard outside opening the door to him without a word. “Now this whole set up might not be what your used to,” O’Malley gestured to the hall as the went up the landing, “But a good estate is so hard to come by now adays.”

“It’s perfect James,” Charlie put her hand on his shoulder lightly.

He called to one of the guards, “Why don’t you get the lady and me a drink, hm?”

The guard turned waiter nodded, “Course boss.” Then scurried off to what she assumed was a kitchen.

O’Malley shook his head as they entered his makeshift parlor. “Been trying to get that cook Hancock’s got up in The Statehouse.” He took a seat on one of the couches gesturing to the one opposite it for her to follow, “Can’t get anything from that rat bastard though.”

As Charlie sat down, she made a point to hike her skirt higher than it’d normal be and crossed her legs. She leaned one elbow on the arm of the couch as she responded, tilting her head to the side causing one of her earnings to rest on the skin of her neck, “Everything but me, it seems.”

He looked her up and down slowly from his place, like he was appraising an art piece for auction. “So, it seems.” He repeated as the man he’d sent off to get drinks entered the room and he exploded. “Can’t you fucks ever fucking nock!”

Charlie had to stop herself from jumping. _Ah. there it is, he’s just a child in a man’s clothing._

“Sorry boss.” The man nearly dropped the glasses, “I w– wasn’t thinkin’.” He set the drinks on the table between them, one much closer to her than O’Malley, then scurried out of the room, shutting the door as he went.

Charlie made a tsking sound, picking up the drink that was obviously for her. “Good help is almost as hard to find as a good home these days.”

O’Malley barked out a laugh, “Why, you don’t need to tell me that.” He picked up his own glass, downing half of it. He carried on embellishing all the ‘good’ work he’d done for Goodneighbor, how he should be the one running things. She leaned back and let him talk, taking sips from her glass now and again as he grew drunker.

It had to be nearly forty minutes before he got around to saying, “That’s why I want the Minutemen on my side. With you lot, I could take this place in a night.”

She nodded with a smile. “You do seem more fit to lead than Hancock, I’ll give you that.” _Speaking of the mayor, when were his boy’s going to show up?_

He nodded with more vigor than she had anticipated, the alcohol in his cup fully taking the reins from him. “Smartest thing you’ve said all night.”

The wanting to slap him feeling was back.

Charlie just giggled with a timid glance to the floor, instead of killing him herself which she would much rather do.

“And he tolerates synths!” O’Malley threw his hands in the air, sloshing the contents of his glass down his arm. He completely ignored it as he continued, “The fuckin’ abominations! An afront to god if you ask me.” She didn’t. “Every one of them should be hunted down and dismantled.”

“I completely agree.” Charlie kept her voice measured trying to hide her sarcasm, though he was too drunk to notice, “Atrocities, the lot of them.”

O’Malley smiled his first genuine smile of the night. “I got one of them you know.” He confessed, pointing to a door Charlie hadn’t noticed before. God, she needed to be more observant. “Right in there. They say they say look just like real woman n’ I plan on seeing for myself later if that’s true or not”

Charlie’s hand reached for her gun, stopping as she fully checked her rage. How quickly she shifted to hoping Hancock’s men _weren’t_ coming. She was going to handle this herself.

She faked a gasp instead, “James darling, I don’t think I’ve ever looked at one of the things in person. Mind showing it to me?” Charlie needed to see this poor woman, needed to know how hurt she was – how scared she must be.

His disgusting eyes lit up. How could a feature so enrapturing on John be so sinister on this sorry excuse of a man? Out of all the people who lived through the great war, why was O’Malley one of them. “I thought ya’d never ask.” He bounded up, almost falling back down in his stupor. When he regained his balance, O’Malley snatched her hand and let her to the door.

It turned out to be his bedroom and when he was done swashing around for the light switch, a single lamp illuminated a woman handcuffed to the radiator. A rag was tied painfully tight around her mouth. Rust colored hair hiding most of her features until she snapped her head up to the doorway.

Half of the woman’s face was scarred from what had to be a long-ago explosion, one of her crystal blue wrath-filled eyes clouded over – she most likely had lost sight in it. On the unscarred side of her forehead, right about her eyebrow was a tattooed faded -AB. It wasn’t a synth in front of her, but a pissed off ex-gunner. More importantly – she was their missing runner. Which meant the synth was being held somewhere else? Deacon thought they’d be together.

The reassurance that O’Malley was an idiot, settled strongly inside her. “Oh James,” Charlie locked eyes with the agent, “Do you have a Geiger counter? She looks like she has radiation poisoning.” All the mistrust left the woman’s body, indignation meeting understanding.

He laughed again, harsh and sickening. “Don’t be stupid. _It_ can’t get rads.” He grabbed her arm forcefully leading her back to the doorway. “Let’s continue our chat in the other room.” He acted like a childing losing interest in a toy.

Charlie nodded to the agent, “Of course.” His hand went lower down her back than she was comfortable with, as he guided her back to her early place. On the table, their drinks had been refilled with what looked like wine. Hers completely replaced since she hadn’t taken more than a few sips of it.

O’Malley continued ranting for another half an hour. Suddenly stopping to drink the remaining half of his wine one motion.

“Drink.” He ordered, “Pisses me off that you haven’t been drinking.”

She followed the instruction, taking from the glass. There was a bitterness to the liquid Charlie wouldn’t normally associate with wine.

O’Malley laughed once more, this one more virulent than the predecessors. “There you go! Now, where were we?” He sank into the fabric behind him.

“How terrible Hancock is?” She suggested, a wave of relaxation settling in her unannounced, flowed promptly by dread. Something was wrong.

“Yes! Who does he think he is drawling on like that? What as that fool even talking about?”

She blinked, the movement growing hefty alarmingly quickly. _Oh no._

Charlie glanced down into the glass she was holding. A ring of white was settling in the bottom of the cup. God, had she learned nothing in collage?

Carefully, she set the glass down. He really had no idea who he was toying with. O’Malley looked at it with a pout, then shifted his attention to her as she stood. It felt like she did five rounds of shots with Glory. Charlie forced out a giggle, while circling behind his couch. Each step felt heavy.

When she was fully behind him, she set one hand on his shoulder sloppily. The other reaching under the hem of her beautiful dress. “James.” She sang his name. “I want ya’ to keep your head forward n’ your eyes closed.”

He complied almost immediately with a smirk, “And why’s that?”

Charlie hummed out a laugh – swaying slightly. “I’m gonna give you a surprise.” She flicked the safety off of Deliverer.

“Oh, I do love surprises.” He purred.

“You need to do me a favor in return m’kay?” Charlie kept her eyes on her gun. She could shoot straight with a drug this strong in her system, right?

“Anything for you.”

“When you get there,” She held the gun inches away from the base of his head, right where the spine meets the skull, “Find a man named Kellogg, n’ say hello for me.”

O’Malley’s reply was cut off by a bullet. The suppressor of her gun keeping the ringing of the shot confined to the room. It did nothing to stop his blood covering her dress and the couch though. A pity, she was hoping she could wear it again.

She reached around to his chest and pulled his handkerchief from its pocket, whipping the blood off her arms with it before letting it fall to the ground – saturated in red.

Charlie stumbled into the bedroom. “Killed em!” She smiled sloppily, kneeling in front of her and undoing the rag around her mouth. “You okay?” it came out slurred but was understandable.

“I’ll be fine. Is F4 okay?” Ah, the model of a perfect agent.

“My partners got ‘em.” The words were said confidently. There was no doubt in her drugged little mind that Deacon hadn’t successfully rescued the synth. He probably didn’t even have a drop of blood on him, the lucky bastard. “Key…key…where’s the key…” Charlie stood too fast, making her almost loose her balance, her heavy earrings clattering on either side of her neck. She looked to the agent and then the floor, for the first time the bashfulness wasn’t forced. “Sorry,” She shrugged, attempting to say the word _ketamine_ but it came out more like a cross between carrot and spleen.

“What?” The agent cocked her head to the side before slumping her shoulders, which looked painful in her current position. “Oh god the fat ass drugged you?”

“He wasn’t that fat,” Charlie countered, “An average guy back in my day– now that I think about it.” She kept looking around the room, not really seeing anything other than a blur of color.

“Bedside table.” The unnamed agent suggested. “Check the bedside table.”

“Ah,” Charlie opened the drawer to find several bottles of pills, some paper and roughly six keys. She grabbed them all in her fist before turning back to the woman, “The old key in the drawer trick.” She bowed back down by the woman’s hands with a crash, not feeling the sting of her knees slamming into the hardwood floor. But – judging from her newfound friend’s wince, it was going to hurt tomorrow.

As Charlie picked up the fist key the agent spoke, “I’m Layline, I’m with Mercer.”

She dropped the key with a clatter finding it was twice the size of the keyhole’s. Eyes widening – she looked at Layline, the rage previously felt returning. “You’re one of mine?” Layline tilted her head again, not understanding, so Charlie clarified. “Wanderer…or is it _The_ Wanderer… hm not the point– I’m with HQ. Set up Mercer ‘n run most of the jobs for it.”

Layline’s mouth gaped open, “No way!” She seemed genially happy with this information, “You’re Wanderer? Ya’ve saved our asses more times than I can count since we’ve been up. Caretaker adores you.”

Charlie smiled at the mention of her other friend. “Is he doin’ okay?”

She chuckled airily, “I mean he’s gonna give me the ‘oh I’m not mad just worried’ face when I finally make it back there but he’ll manage.”

Key number two was also incorrect, Charlie moved to the third. “That’s always his face though _.” No luck, key four maybe?_

Popping sound could be head on the floor below them. _Oh, so now the neighborhood watch decides to show up_. _Where were they before the dress got ruined?_ Layline shot a look at Charlie but before she could say anything she spoke up, “Donnacha worry, they’re with us– why’d Mr. Tacky Ass think you’s the synth?” She wanted to distract Layline from the violence downstairs, wanted to distract herself from how it made her head pound.

Key four was a success. As soon as her hand was free, Layline plopped it down to her side and awaited the other. “I knew he’d kill her if he knew. Least this way she would’ve had a chance of gettin’ out.” She held one wrist in her other hand and began massaging it gently as soon as she was able.

“Yay, you’re free!” Charlie sang as she threw the keys towards the bed in celebration.

“I think ya’d be fun to get drunk with, Wanderer.” Layline looked her up and down, an amused expression on her face.

Charlie tilted her head to the side, blurring her eyesight momentarily. “Is that a good thing?” She was genuinely curious.

The door to the foyer opened with a bang, followed by the disappointing groans of Hancock’s boys. “Ah fuckn ‘ell. He’s already dead.” One of them called out.

Charlie huffed, her dizziness growing. Layline put her arm out to steady her. She felt bad – she was supposed to be making sure Layline was safe. Not the other way around. “You’re late!” She yelled angrily to the room from the opened doorway.

Two of them entered the room as Layline helped Charlie stand.

“You the General?” One of them asked.

Layline gave her a quizzical look that Charlie waved off. “Shh, that’s a secret.” She turned her attention to the ghoul. “I sure as hell hopes so.” The agitation not leaving her voice.

“O’Malley drugged her,” Layline explained, her arm around Charlie’s shoulder tightening protectively.

Charlie held up a finger mater of factly, “With ketamine.”

“Yes, with keta-whatever.”

She looked between the two members of the neighborhood watch, dissatisfied with who they were. “Where’s my Deacon?”

“Right here, General.” A familiar pair of glasses shoved their way into the room, not stopping till he was right in front of her. The suit from earlier was gone, replaced with a tweed jacket and a bowler hat. A shame really, he looked so handsome.

“Hi.” She said simply, not bothering to hide the smile.

“Hi.” Deacon looked like he was going to reach up and brush a strand of fallen hair behind her ear. He stopped himself from following through with the action, instead turning his attention to Layline, “Lieutenant Luther Hays ma’am.” The words were uttered with a tip of his hat as the neighborhood watch filed out of the room.

Layline put her hand not wrapped around Charlie on her hip, clearly not buying what Deacon was selling. “Mhm, sure Dee.”

A ping of jealousy went through Charlie, of course she knew Deacon. Everybody knew him – just as much as everyone didn’t.

He smiled at Layline sheepishly, it wasn’t the face he made when she herself called him out in a lie. The jealously left with that realization just as soon as it arrived.

Charlie didn’t really clock the move from the warehouse back to the street outside. She just focused on Deacon’s arm protectively around her. Hiding her from the cold and Layline on the other side of her doing the same. The sound of her footsteps and her heartbeat were all she could really hear. Layline’s and his voice went back and forth. She though they were talking about where the synth was, but Charlie didn’t quite catch it.

It seemed like she blinked and then was sitting on the edge bed in the room she had started the night in.

Alone.

Staring at her blood covered self in the reflection of the mirror, Deacon’s jacket draped over her shoulders. It smelt like him and childishly, she didn’t want to let go of it. She reached up to one ear and pulled the backing of the heavy jewelry, letting it clatter down to the rug below. The same was done with the other. Every movement felt heavy and caused her head to spin. Charlie wanted to sleep, but she wanted Deacon to come back even more. She returned to staring at herself.

The necklace– she had completely forgotten she was wearing it, caught the light coming from the lamp by the mirror. Instinctively her hand reached up to hold it, like the tiny silver star could burn out at any moment. Now it was her wedding ring that danced with the light. An insurmountable sadness washed through her.

Really, she hadn’t even hesitated when she killed O’Malley. Had he deserved to die? He planned on assaulting Layline – so absolutely. But guilt was an odd thing, it didn’t always care about justifications. Her eye’s darted to her gun that was now placed on the nightstand.

Water ran down Charlie’s throat and landed on her hand, confusing her.

 _Oh. When had that started?_ The tears were silent, as they often were. But they persisted none the less, the liquid cleared the blood from her skin as it went. Leaving a reverse mascara streak of sorts. Except it was red and well… a recently killed person’s blood.

She sat there staring at her reflection, watching the tear and then another and another fall from her eyes. Keeping her hand clutched around the necklace, eyes darting back to her ring.

There was a light knocking on the door, but she didn't answer it. A few moments passed before it opened tentatively. “How you doing Wands?”

She glanced up at Deacon, “Well I just killed somebody after they drugged me, so I’ve had better Wednesday nights.” She moved her eyes from his glasses back to her reflection.

He looked at her apologetically. “Sorry it wasn't the party you’re used to.”

“No but…it was exactly what I expected.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “That's the part that sucks.”

Deacon nodded his head in understanding, closing the door behind him, locking it. “Layline’s heading to Dayton,” He explained, “She's going to stay at that safe house for a day or two to recover before she heads back to Mercer. You did good, Charlie.”

“She didn't take her gaze from the reflection, but now he could be seen in it as well. “Is the synth okay?”

Deacon’s reflection nodded as he sat down next to her. The bed moving with his weight. “She’s already in the Memory Den with Matchstick.”

“I'm glad.”

“Are you doing okay?” He asked again, his voice was softer now. A hand tentatively coming up to brush a stray curl back behind her ear. The movement was so tender – so light that if she blinked, she probably wouldn't have noticed it. She probably would have mistaken his hand for another tear.

Charlie hesitated before answering. “There’s a date-rape drug in my system that I was stupid enough to drink. So, I'm going to have a really bad hangover tomorrow and I'm dizzy ‘n I feel like I'm swimming. And I know I'm not swimming ‘n that's annoying. Hancock gets to have a fun night but what do I get? Groped and drugged and blood all over my pretty dress. But yeah, I'm okay Dee.”

“Speaking of blood,” He smiled softly ending her rant, “The upper half of you looks like a brahmin stake, I thought you were going to change while I was gone?”

“I couldn’t reach the buttons.” She motioned to her back. “And I’m tired.”

He waited a beat before speaking, like he was deciding something. “Alright then, come here.” Deacon turned her slightly, so her back was to him, then he took his coat from her shoulders, tossing it to the other side of the bed. Before continuing he asked, “Okay now where’d you put your clothes so I can get your shirt?”

She hummed for a moment, “I dunno. That was a really long time ago Dee, how am I supposed to remember where I put a tee shirt?”

She assumed he was blinking at her. Deacon shook his head endearingly before reaching for his pack he placed in the room earlier. “Giant Deacon button up it is then.”

“Yaaaaay.” Charlie giggled, “Oh I hope it’s the flannel, I love your flannel.”

“Why ma’am you’re just in luck,” He put on a car salesmen’s voice. “One faded green flannel is still in stock.” Reaching into the bag he pulled the article in question out before returning to the task at hand.

Deacon sat cross legged behind her, mirroring her own position and began work on the buttons. His hands were always so warm, it really felt like she was sitting under the sun when he touched her. One button, then another, then another. It seemed like he was taking his time, but surely, he was as tired as she was – or close to it.

Soon her back was completely visible to him. There was no discomfort in that realization. It was Deacon after all, he had seen every part of her at one point or another, this was just more of the same. She sat off the bed, letting the dress fall to the floor. The cold of the room trying to dig into the now exposed skin of her chest down to her thighs.

“Okay, shirt time.” The words were hushed as they left him.

“Yay, shirt time.” She sang quietly putting her arms through the sleeves of his shirt when he handed it to her. Charlie began fastening the buttons, a much simpler task when they went down her chest and not up her spine. Deacon moved from his place behind her as she worked, doing something with a jug of water and a rag that she lost interest in. When the task was completed, she returned her legs to their earlier position. “Dee?” She asked. Why they both felt the need to speak in whispers now she didn’t know – her headache didn’t particularly mind.

He was kneeling in front of her now, a wet rag in one hand with the other held out to her. Asking silently for her to place her own in his palm. Charlie did as he requested watching as he cleaned the now dried blood from her hands and arms with a practiced care. Not a single word shared between them. He held her like she was glass as he worked. This wasn’t the first time he had cleaned blood from her. Though the last time it was Drummer Boy’s, their dear friend, when he had gotten shot by an overconfident scavenger. A few times it had been her own.

Deacon finished with her arms and looked up at her. From his place below her his eyes were just barely looking over the rim of his glasses. Shining at her with the blue of a freshly rained from sky. She looked away the second they made eye contact. His eyes were his most guarded secret, she had no right to look at them.

“Charlie?” His voice remained hushed.

She had her stare transfixed to her now clean hands, to her wedding ring. Would Nathan want her thinking about someone else in a similar regard in which he was held now that he was gone? Would he be okay with her moving on? With a love so great being felt twice? “Yes.” She breathed out.

“Is it alright if I clean your face and neck off?”

She looked back to his eyes; Deacon hadn’t pushed his glasses back up. “Is it that bad?” Charlie began to turn her head to face the mirror once more, but he stopped her. His hand cuffing the side of her face with a softened care. The callus of his thumb catching a stray tear.

“I mean you look as beautiful as you always do, just a little more… red.” He smiled up at her the way he always did when she did something he found impressive. But now she hadn’t done anything. Charlie was just sitting cross lagged on a bed with his shirt on, the definition of drowsy. His hand didn’t leave her, “Is it okay?”

Charlie nodded slowly as not to make herself dizzy again.

He smiled at her again, moving closer to her face. Deacon began cleaning the blood spatters from her cheeks. Whipping the streaks her tears had made with them. He moved his hand cuffing her face down the side of her neck – down to her shoulder, thumb now resting on her collarbone lightly. “I’m so sorry.” The words were so quiet she almost missed them.

“About what Dee?” She lifted up her hand and set it on top of his own.

He looked so sad, she could see his eyebrows knitting together, as if a confession were about to drawn from him. “That you were stuck with Hancock for so long. The man never stops talking.”

He rose from his place before her, setting the rag on table by the mirror. Now it was her turn to wear an expression of sadness. He hid the truth from her again. Should she push it? Charlie wanted to know what he was sorry for, she didn’t understand. “Deacon?” She whispered as he sat back down behind her, her back to him.

“Yes?” With that one word she felt the exhale of his breath against her neck bring a cascade of goosebumps on her skin with it.

“Can you take my hair down? There’s a lot of pins in it.” She couldn’t bring herself to insist – too afraid he would run away. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, lest she reach back to touch the man.

“Sure, yeah. I can do that.” How interesting it was, that the love between these two individuals was shared with tiny, yet somehow grand gestures – such as taking the pins from someone’s hair.

His finger began combing through her hair rhythmically, again like she was made of fine crystal he could shatter with too much pressure or too fast a motion. Deacon started at the base of her neck, moving his fingers upwards into her hair, locating pin after pin.

He moved her fallen hair over to one shoulder, leaving the opposing side completely bare. Charlie chuckled inwardly, “I forgot ‘bout the pins.”

“Hm?” His hand had moved to her forehead, above her temple, his face moved to the other side of her own to hear her better. The side, she noted, where her skin wasn’t hidden behind a curtain of hair. “I didn’t quite hear you Char.”

“Layline was handcuffed to the radiator.” Charlie explained, “I could’ve picked the lock, but it didn’t even cross my mind…” sadness bloomed inside her, “How could I forget one of the only things I’m good at?”

With the last piece of hair free, his arms wrapped around her waist. An uncharacteristic motion for him, yet it was gentle enough that if she were to pull away – he’d let her. Deacon set his chin on her shoulder, resting his head against her own. The edge of his glasses digging into her skin. “How could you say that?”

“Say what?” She was genuinely confused; he should know that the majority of her cognitive functions weren’t working right now. “I forgot ‘bout the pi-”

“No.” He cut her off, holding her ever so tenderly, “How can you say that’s one of the only things you’re good at? Charlotte Hale, you’re one of the most amazing women I’ve met in a long time… Every action you have is a marvel that cannot be replaced by any other person. Each movement you do paints an intricate picture that cannot be mimicked or replaced. You touch the lives of every single person you are around Charlie. Since you came out of that Vault, you have made the world such a better place – a brighter place. I cannot fathom what it would be like without you. You are a star to every wondering lark who’s worth is unknown, yet height has already been taken.”

“What did I do to get somebody like you in my life, Dee?” If he were any farther from her, she doubted the words would be heard.

“I should be the one asking that.” He pulled away from her now, the motion seemed like one he didn’t want to commit to. “You should try to sleep.”

She frowned at the absence of his warmth. “But we gotta tell Dez we got the job done.” Despite her words, Charlie made her way to the pillows on the bed.

“I sent our report to a dead drop, Drummer probably has it by now. It’s okay.” He was walking to the door like he was going to leave her.

Fear spiked in Charlie’s heart, “Deacon,” She called hastily; no effort was put into covering the panic in her tone. “Please don’t go.”

Deacon snapped his head in her direction before his name was even fully said. Concern, maybe a decision, washed through his face before he could hide it. “Course, Wands. I was just getting the light.”


End file.
